


I am gay!

by Esbe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Female John Watson, Friendship, Gen, Not Slash, Not!Elementary, Still very much BBC Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 16:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6964300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esbe/pseuds/Esbe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if John Watson had been a woman?<br/>What if John Watson had been a female and still interested in women?<br/>Let's call her Joan.<br/>Dr. Joan Watson is a woman. She is gay. She is still physically quite like Martin Freeman with added feminine attributes. Sherlock Holmes is still a man.They do share a flat. Basically everything else is still the same. <b>EVERYTHING</b></p><p>PS: I keep updating this time and again with more one shots so please subscribe to the fic if you are interested in this silliness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm gay!

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished my first long fic and needed some time off. In my case it means going wonky on these poor characters. So I thought hey! what if instead John Watson had to protest to all and sundry that- I'm gay!
> 
> I haven't ever seen the series Elementary and for the time being have no intention of doing so. I'm calling her Joan Watson simply because it easy to do so without confusing the hell out of readers. (I still don't understand why and how I can love martin freeman and still want to write him as a woman)
> 
> This is NOT slash. It would be crack if I had any sense of humour beyond a six year olds!
> 
> Don't kill me if you hate the damn thing. This will be just a few short chapters I promise. Normal Johncroft services resume in a few days.

“Oh for fuck’s sake! I’m gay!” Joan is exasperated.

Not that it makes any difference. **Nothing** makes any difference. They all still assume that Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Joan Watson are either sleeping together or that at least the good doctor would like to. Usually she doesn’t care what anyone thinks about her. But when it comes to her sexuality and their relationship it becomes _an issue_. Perhaps its because she fought so hard for all of it. Sherlock thinks she is being irrational.

Sherlock, the lanky git, may be taller than her and have testosterone enough to easily build muscles if he wanted, but he has never obsessed about eating right, never spent days chasing a ball across a pitch. But Joan has spent a lifetime being scared she'll end up pudgy like her mom, not being able to play, so Joan is just as strong as him and in some cases stronger. In recent years, Sherlock probably hasn’t lifted anything heavier than his violin (perhaps the harpoon). Joan, however, has trekked the sands of Afghanistan, in searing heat (try 40-50 degrees C), carrying her own weight in a backpack and the rifle, the ammo, the works! Sherlock possibly never got into an all out fight; she thinks he simply used his venomous tongue to crush the opposition. Not so for her. Whether it was the pitch, the wards or the army. Dyke jokes were aplenty. There were enough blokes who challenged her to games (rugby is a contact sport), to drinking, shooting, and it always ended up in a scuffle. Her unit was okay though, scratch that, the boys were great. What she wouldn’t give to introduce them to each dick in medical school who claimed that anyone blonde and possessing tits should be handing over the scalpel and not wielding it. So yeah!

And then of course there was the whole, _spend a night with my cock, baby, and you will forget about girls!_ Really?

So yeah, she has learnt long back to not let it bother her and usually it doesn’t but for those few instances when someone blatantly tells her that she is lusting after her flatmate.

She takes a deep breath now; jaw clenched tight and walks to the other side of the room. Sherlock frowns at the corpse, flicks a _look_ over his shoulder at the new sergeant in Lestrade’s team and then walks over to her side. Then he proceeds to completely ignore her as he crouches to observe the carpeted corner. She is both gratified and mortified.

They leave shortly and she isn’t sure whether they are done with the case or simply the site of the murder. It isn’t like her to be so rattled but today she was concentrating so hard on not concentrating on Sherlock that she succeeded brilliantly and missed everything. She is still cursing herself when they go up the steps to their flat. Oh hell! It’s possibly PMS.

“No it’s not.”

“Sherlock! How… what…”

“Don’t be daft, Joan, your periods ended six days ago. Oh that? Your current chain of thoughts is hardly doctorate material, though if the quality and quantity of Ph.D.s in this country is anything to go by it perhaps is now.”

“Sherlock!” she stomps away to the kitchen and switches the kettle on.

“What exactly upsets you about these insinuations of a sexual relationship between us?”

“I am not talking about it.”

“Oh come on. Help me a little. You have banned me from deducing you aloud.”

“Ohhhh! So that was you NOT deducing me.”

“Sarcasm, Joan? And I was only deducing your thoughts, not you.”

“So go ahead then. Fucking deduce me as well. Its not like you are going to stop for my bloody sake.”

“I would you know. I did stop after you insisted so vociferously.” Sherlock’s voice is almost meek and conciliatory and even though she knows he’s shamming it she does accept that he tried and breaks into a smile, shaking her head. It’s so typical of him.

Then in a total Sherlockian about turn he says, “Plus, I would say they are complimenting you after all. That you are engaging in sexual congress with me, instead of those empty headed women you insist on dating, speaks volumes for your good taste.” Thus evaporating any good will he had garnered and normalcy is restored in 221B.


	2. The Dates (as usual)

The date is definitely a success!

Farzana is sexy and smart. She is a sub-editor for a financial magazine. They met at Clara’s engagement party. Long black hair, curvy hips, dusky skin (that bold red blouse Farzana is wearing is definitely helping), and **zero** coyness. There is every chance Joan is getting laid tonight. And yes, perhaps the outfit that Sherlock picked has helped but she is sure most of it is her.

Even if her senses for these things hadn’t been sharpened during her time with Sherlock, Joan would have noticed all the signs of interest. They are down to dessert now that her date had _insisted_ they share. The bottle of wine is all gone. Farzana flicks her hair behind, a little flush, laughing a bit as she tells a story from work, then she clasps her hands together in her lap, bending slightly forward so that her cleavage deepens and her idea on how the evening could end is crystal clear.

Joan really should have Sherlock pick her date outfits more often. The sky blue shirt with the pale jacket would not have been her choice but if her date’s appreciative and lingering glances are anything to go by then it was the right thing to wear. _“It makes you look like that woman who was talking to the Bond actor.”_ Joan is sure she looks nothing remotely like Ellen DeGeneres but the fact that Sherlock remembers the show at all and was complimenting her had felt rather nice. Especially since he is usually rather scathing about her dating as well as her dates.

Ok she can stop thinking about him now. Three continents Watson doesn’t need Sherlock’s methods to read her date and she doesn’t need them to broadcast her interest. So Joan lists a little towards her dinner companion, looking into her eyes, working it, she drags one arm slowly up the back of the couch, making it look like a caress, then she glides it to just an inch from Farzana’s shoulders and stops with her fingers splayed. To all intents and purposes it looks like Joan can barely keep her hands away from her date. Farzana shifts just a little so her shoulder is touching those fingers now.

Success!

Then Joan’s phone rings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm assuming there is an interview of Daniel Craig with Ellen Degeneres.
> 
> Of course Dr Joan is just as popular with the ladies. Of course Sherlock interrupts Joan's dates too. I told you nothing else is changed.


	3. This isn't what it looks like

“Mmmmmpf.” It was too bloody hot for a blanket. The windows are open yet, even in her t-shirt and shorts she is sweating. Heck! She is sure she didn’t even pull a sheet over. So why? Oh! Not again!

“Sherlock,” she pushes at him. How the hell is he so bloody tenacious even in his sleep? Fucking leech! Bloody octopus! Goddamned furnace!

“Jooooan,” he pitifully moans. “Why do you insist I sleep when you are the one who keeps waking me up?”

“Get off me, Sherlock.”

“Nnnn. Warm. Nice.”

Honestly! The fucking tank that had almost crushed Billy in Iraq had been more obliging. She calms herself, relaxes her body and then gives a good shove. Freedom! Hah!

Pee, hands, teeth, face, tea. Sanity. They had turned in early yesterday. Well she had. Sherlock had been doing whatever he did in hours minus the sun. And there are still two hours before she needs to head off to the clinic. She hasn’t had a morning to herself in ages. Bliss! Toast and eggs. Browse the news online. Humming to oneself! Yes, Sherlock, she knows she cannot carry a tune but this is her breakfast table and if she wants to whistle and hum fucking Chopin in any fucking key she can then she will. It’s a wonderful morning.

Replying to some comments on the blog. Nothing different there. Off to shower. Open that new shampoo from Tesco. Robe. And out. The packet of new socks (yes they are generic ankle lengths from Primark) is still by the door. Quick detour.

Enter sleepy flatmate in a ratty t-shirt and boxers. He yawns and stretches like a shaggy sleepy dog and plops his head on her shoulder. “Ummmmm. New shampoo?”

The door opens and Lestrade enters to witness their domestic bliss.

Joan stiffens as she realises the picture they present. She is freshly showered, in naught but her underwear and a bathrobe. A half naked Sherlock, who is obviously not yet fully awake, is draped over her back, nose buried in her neck breathing her in deeply, and saying. Wait! The berk is still speaking (in the most put upon sleepy voice).

“But Joan you cannot keep changing your toiletries like this. I just catalogued all your smells in the bed last night.”

And wham!

She steels herself and plasters a smile in greeting the DI, “Good morning, Greg. Anything urgent?”

To his credit Lestrade carries on the charade, “Hullo, Joan. Just the file and the disc I had told you both about.” He is a perfect gentleman, as he always is, when he places the items in her hand.

Meanwhile, Sherlock carries on grumbling sleepily “Come back to bed. I can’t be in your bed without you and I’m not done yet.”

Lestrade keeps a straight face as he turns back to the door and leaves.

At least it wasn’t Donovan, she tells herself.


	4. Mrs. Hudson ships them

Joan has a slight curve on her tummy. She knows she isn’t in the same shape as she was in the army but heck she does run the length and breadth of London behind a long-limbed maniac. Her last annual ECG was perfectly fine but that is no reason to ignore her increasing girth. Plus she’s crossed forty. It’s the takeaway and eating out and not enough fruit or fresh veggies. Her face looks more rounded too. She’s never been vain of her looks but this is the absolute limit. That’s it, _time to tighten your regimen, Watson_ , she tells herself.

Sherlock barely protests at the strict laying of an edibles-only zone on the uppermost shelf of the fridge. They bought a separate freezer for him the previous year and thank the universe for that! It is good to know that her frozen yoghurt and packs of spinach will not be sharing space with slices of frozen human liver.

He also does not say a word about her insistence on reducing takeaway and cooking at least four meals each week (it had been an arbitrary number but Joan had needed a target and that’s the one she picked). It added to her general grumpiness post clinic, chases and cases but she was dogged in her determination. And though his highness stuck to his chocolate coated biscuits and Mrs. Hudson’s scones (no one else’s), he had nary a comment, not even a stray raised eyebrow, about Joan snacking mostly on fruits and salads minus dressing.

Six-weeks passed and Greg, ever the gentleman, almost made her blush when he commented on her _glow_. He, of course, inferred a consistently satisfying sexual life (rather non-existent actually) but she liked him even more for that.

So when she tried again the next day and found that she still couldn’t comfortably fit into her trousers from last year and her RAMC t-shirt stretched rather obscenely (in her opinion) around her middle, she was obviously rather upset and losing the inches became a campaign.

In spite of their erratic routine she decided to pack in half an hour of exercise every single day. She would concentrate on upper or lower body each day as she used to in her rugby playing days. And that’s when the trouble began. A silent spectator so far, Sherlock made every effort to sabotage her exercise regimen. Her dumb-bells had gone missing, her shoes had been drenched, her sports bra had been experimented upon, her mat had had bits cut out, the berk even caught a terrible cold and insisted that Joan sit it out with him for the entire two days!

It was maddening and Joan barely held on to her patience and temper. But that evening was the final straw. Admittedly, it wasn’t a patch on what had gone before it but— she started dressing for her workout and found her white headband replaced by a bright pink. She fucking hated the damned colour. Sherlock knew it. They had a blazing row, which ended with Joan banging the door on her way out and spending two hours out instead of the half hour. That she never went to the gym was beside the point. They both went to bed hungry.

Joan woke up to someone nuzzling her tummy.

“Sherlock!”

“I was very careful. You never wake up.”

_Wait. What?_

“Yes, I know. I’m leaving.”

_Huh?_

A cup of tea, shower, toast, with some more tea, the last two shared grudgingly by the _idiot flatmate_ (as she was calling him now) and Joan was feeling calmer and hopefully it wouldn’t devolve into a full shouting match. Soon.

“You _will_ shout at me.”

_Of course. Yeah back to feeling shouty in 0.5._

“You are not fat. In fact you never have been. No matter what your brother says. Given your inherited genetics, your age, diet and life style, prolonged convalescence you are healthier, fitter and lighter in weight than expected.”

“Ummm thanks.”

“Thank yourself for being disciplined and stubborn. So you can stop this nonsense of trying to lose weight now.”

“Not how it works, Sherlock. I know am not overweight. Just erm… getting pudgy you know. Happens to all of us. I crossed forty so have to exercise more to keep up. That’s all. I’m not taking time away from being with you or finding excuses to do so, you know.”

The responding snort could win awards. It was followed by _the withering look_. But, the reflected contempt for one’s "so-called intellect" left Joan unfazed. All it did to our **brave dame of Baker Street Dr Joan Watson** , (no saint and definitely no maid- you don’t get the title of three-continents if you stick to either) right, so all it did was to tell her that her guess about Sherlock’s-inexplicable-actions-against-private-spaces was way off. No hardship there. It was always hit and miss. More hits recently but it was still Sherlock.

“Good then. Yes.” Sherlock flounced off to his microscope and left Joan to clear the table and wash the dishes.

It was her day off (from both the clinic and cases) and she could spend it cleaning, blogging, reading, wondering why Sherlock was opposed to her exercising, and heck why had he been nuzzling her belly? That drew her up short again. “Sherlock. Can I speak to you for a second please?”

“No.”

“Please Sherlock. Won’t take too long I promise.”

“I don’t get why _you_ are making a fuss, Joan. You don’t respect my boundaries either. Just two days back you dragged me by my arm, pushed me to sit, pulled off my clothes, examined me, dabbed me with various chemicals, poked me with needles, forced me to swallow pills and then dragged me to bed, dumping me there unceremoniously and with unnecessary force, threatening me that you would tie me to it if I did not sleep.”

“Sorry.”

“I forgive you.” _Oh the benign magnanimity of me!_

“So can you listen to me now please. I need this Sherlock or I wouldn’t have asked. Please one conversation without you deducing my next words is all. And not too long either.”

Sherlock huffed loudly and glared at her, then came over and sat next to her on the couch.

“I appreciate it. Thanks. So, ummm, why were you, I mean this morning, my stomach, um you were.”

“Can I interrupt to answer?”

“Ok.”

“Because I like to.”

“Ok. That’s ok.” A long pause and then, “And is that, you said I never woke, I mean it’s fine of course.”

“Yes, I do that frequently. And you are lying, you are not fine with it. Else you wouldn’t have asked. And I wouldn’t have needed to do it only when you were sleeping, obviously.”

“No. I mean yes. But Sherlock—”

“It reminds me of Mycroft.”

“Wha-, um, could you explain?”

Another huff and prolonged silence. Joan isn’t sure she wants Sherlock to continue. Being compared to Mycroft can in no way be good. She waits patiently telling herself she’s asked for it.

“When we were younger, Mycroft was rather plump. He was soft all over but most especially around his stomach.” Sherlock takes a deep breath as if he is about to reveal the location of the Holy Grail. When he continues his voice is lower but with more than a hint of defiance that is so typical of him. “I used to lo-, I liked laying on his stomach and he seemed to like it too. We used to spend hours together with him reading and me _resting_ against him asking him questions. It always brought unusual calm to my mind.”

Silence again.

“That, that’s good then. You could have told me you know. And I guess I am fat then.”

“Oh for God’s sake, Joan, is that what you took from all that? Yes, your belly has softened in the past few months, but it is by no means unattractive. It helps me calm my mind to lie down like that. Mycroft always let me do it till he too became conscious of his _weight_. He started dieting and exercising and hated it when I complained about his pointy bones. The more weight he lost the worse he became. Every cake or pastry he refused drove a wedge between us. Each mile on his treadmill only made him a miserable know-it-all. I refused to even hug him after that”

To say Joan is stunned would be simply stating the obvious. She is not surprised at the Holmesian melodrama and metaphors. But she gets the picture of Sherlock and Mycroft as _regular_ siblings spending time together and being quite tactile. She gets the picture of being a brother's equivalent of a ratty blanket or a raggedy stuffed toy. And finally, she gets the picture of fear of losing one such again. Sherlock thought... She looks up and Sherlock is glaring as if she had pulled out his tooth without an anaesthetic.

 _The git!_ Joan smiles, “Come on then,” she beckons, “Lets see you calm.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes for a second before diving in and snuggling into her stomach. Joan can’t help but giggle. As Sherlock truly calms down she picks up the paper and starts reading. After an article or two she recalls something.

“But no demanding this all the time, ok? And not without permission. Ask,” she says sternly.

All that it elicits is a gentle snort.

The calm is really lovely and Joan could definitely live with an occasional head on her belly if it can get her some peace.

“Joan.”

“Hm?”

“Can I pull up your shirt to feel the skin? Please.”

The please is an afterthought of course. “Ok.”

So Sherlock pulls up her jumper and shirt and rests his face against the soft flesh. He spreads his arms around her. He utters a sigh and then simply goes limp. Joan is feeling extremely calm herself and is about to utter a responding sigh when the door opens and Mrs. H peeks in. Before Joan can open her mouth she gives them a fond shake of her head places a symbolic hand before her eyes and retreats closing the door softly.

Joan closes her eyes and mentally thumps her head against a wall. I. Am. Gay.

Oh well!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why i like these two. I know i haven't invented this idea. I have never seen Elementary but am very much aware it exists. I also know there are many more brilliant representations of these two in fanfic with a female John Watson and I have shipped Johnlock way before BBC happened. But somehow this non-slash one appeals to my muse. Go figure. And if you do please let me know what is up with her.
> 
> I can't promise that this is the last nor that there will be more. But I am always going to show this as a complete work because all of these are stand alones and so if anyone wants 'complete works only' these fit.


	5. My flatmate the berk or why zippers are evil

There was a good reason Joan never wore dresses. Never. Not fucking ever. And they were called zips.

Oh ok so zips were great for flies and jackets and bags but they were evil when they got on women's dresses. Because they were always on the back. Who the fuck thought of the bloody idea in the first place. Find the damned arseholes and string them.

Would it kill those fuckers to at least put the bloody things on the side? Did they think women had removable hands or torsos?

Bloody buggering fuck this was insane. She was tired. She had succumbed to snobbery and worn heels too. (Why Joan why)

Really low heels but everyone knows that there are no such things as comfortable heels. If you want comfort you wear sneakers. And with her broad feet most women's shoes squeezed her little toe painfully. She had kicked off those evil devices of torture as soon as she entered the flat. The accompanying black tights were now adorning the couch. She'd gladly offer them to Sherlock. They could keep her jumpers company in the heaven-reserved-for-Joan-Watson's-clothes-sacrificed-on-the-altar-of-science-by-Sherlock-Holmes.

Fuckkkkkkk this was one of those nice sophisticated zippers that couldn't just be pulled apart by holding the two ends of her dress. No it was self locking. so the dress wouldn't open by accident! It had to be opened only using the zipper tab. Which was now in the middle of her back and hence fucking inaccessible by mere humans. She just couldn't reach the bloody fucking zipper. She was this close to—

"Joaaan."

She was never doing this again. Never. Whether to impress a prospective date or to help Sherlock bloody Holmes the berk. Nothing was fucking worth this.

"Joaaawwwwn."

Women's fashion was dictated by fucking misogynistic idiots whose idea of beauty was masochism. The same fucking idiots who thought women didn't need pockets. The same fucking idiots who thought that women didn't need to walk fast or without twisting an ankle or pulling a hamstring. Arseholes. She was f—

"Joan, if you come down I can unzip you and you can get me my lap top."

Of fucking course. the goal of her existence.

"Stop scowling Joan. That lipgloss doesn't lend itself well to down turned lips."

Sherlock ducked as a low heeled shoe with open toes came flying at him

"I'm trying to help, you idiot. Now come here. Please?"

Joan padded over grudgingly.

"It's just a zipper, Joan."

"It's evil is what it is."

Sherlock slid it down in a jiffy and then turned her around to hug her and pronounce, “I do like no. 5 on you.” Ah yes her one indulgence.

“Ahem.”

Joan did not need to look over and see who was sitting in her chair. Because there was only one smugly satisfied arsehole in the whole world that she always wanted to punch. Almost always. Mostly. Sherlock the berk merely tightened his arms. At least this explained the sudden need for hugging her instead of demanding the laptop even if her dress was falling off her.

“What a lovely domestic scene. Are congratulations in order Dr. Watson. Sherlock do call Mummy to inform her. She will be so pleased. She has always wanted to arrange an engagement party at the house.”

“Then have her arrange one for you and Lestrade, brother dear.” Sherlock the berk turned both of them so she could have a lovely view of Mycroft’s face as he looked about to throw up. As sibling jibes went this was a palpable hit.

“I doubt that she’d be interested in shared coffee. Perhaps a mutual undressing is a better indicator,” Mycroft rallied.

“Then, would you like me to call Mummy and tell her about that rumpled waistcoat and a mutually missing cuff button from the other day?” Sherlock twisted the knife.

“Oh get your mind out of the gutter, Sherlock.”

“I would ask you the same, Mycroft,” Joan retorted with all the dignity of a woman whose shoulders and back were bare and not by design while her dress was being held to her waist by her flatmate. Said flatmate went on to lay his cheek on her head in a disgustingly sweet sign of affection and she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to punch him or kiss him. She just went for hugging him back.


End file.
